


Provenance

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, all i know is he adores her, is it unrequited if he expects nothing from it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 20:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18676507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: Aldhelm has known Aethelflaed for years, always observing from a careful distance. Somewhere along the line, the balance tips, and he realises the situation is far more dangerous now that he has someone to lose.





	Provenance

**Author's Note:**

> I love this pairing so much - Aethelflaed deserves to be happy, and Aldhelm clearly adores her ♥️ 
> 
> This is essentially their story in S3, with a few extra scenes!
> 
> Graphics for them on my [tumblr](https://skatingthinandice.tumblr.com/tagged/aethelflaed-x-aldhelm)

It all begins so slowly that he does not notice it at first. He does not realise it is something he needs to counter until it is too late.

Before anything else, it is admiration. Admiration at the way she carries herself, unflinching in the face of her husband’s ungrateful, vicious words. The defiance in the tilt of her chin as she dares to challenge him, to speak up and defend herself. The way she leads in battle, courageous and fearless.

And he, nothing more than a faithful servant, watching from the sidelines, and falling.

 

* * *

 

There is no harm in feeling the way he does, he reasons. She never needs to know.

He is no friend to her and never has been—too close to her husband’s side to ever be considered as such. They are rarely in the same room together for more than a few hours, and even those brief moments are bookended by months of absence. It can be concealed.

For a long time, he almost manages to believe it.

And then, inevitable, the world shifts, and his carefully constructed walls come crashing to the ground.

 

* * *

 

Aethelwold is no threat, of course—just a boy with delusions of grandeur—but the seed, once planted, can become nothing other than dangerous in the mind of one already filled with the deepest hatred towards everything his wife has become.

It is not long before he receives the summons he has been dreading, and is forced to listen as Aethelred speaks the words he had no doubt he would hear.

“And you have decided what?” he asks, fighting to keep his voice level.

It is like watching a coin spinning in mid-air, over and over, and knowing with sickening certainty that there is only one way it will fall.

 

* * *

 

The journey to Aethelflaed’s estate feels like the longest of his life, even though he has covered the distance quicker than ever before. It is late by the time he arrives, darkness having fallen long ago. It makes it easier to pass by the guards, unseen.

He can hear nothing but the pounding of his heart as he creeps through the corridor towards the main chamber, praying that he will find her within. He cannot bear to think of the alternative.

Through the screen he sees her, the golden glow of candlelight caressing the curves of her face. There is no time to marvel at the way it highlights her features, soft and untroubled in repose—it is enough to see her alive.

The knife feels heavy in his hand, his stomach sick with the thought of what he is about to do. But it is the only course of action. She must listen to his plea, for all their sakes.

She turns to the pile of papers at her side, and he knows he will not get another chance.

He will remember her terrified gasp until the end of his days—the way she trembles under his hand, her breath coming hard and fast against his fingers. Pressed close, their faces inches apart, he cannot miss the fear in her expression.

She may never look at him kindly now, but it does not matter. He will speak, and she will be safe.

 

* * *

 

To his relief, his attempts are not in vain. The assassin is dispatched, and finds no one within the house. Aethelflaed is safe, and must remain so.

It emboldens him to speak when perhaps it would be wiser to hold his tongue.

“You should leave her in peace, Lord,” he dares. “That is my advice.”

Aethelred’s expression only darkens further, his voice as blunt as a sword yet to be whetted, and as hard as steel.

It is not over.

 

* * *

 

After all he has risked, it is difficult to watch her ride towards the jaws of danger, directly into the belly of the beast. Alfred and his guards may be here, but it is no safer for her to be within Aethelred’s fortress now than before.

She looks wearier than last he saw her, borne no doubt of her long journey and weeks spent in hiding, but her spirit is not diminished, and he cannot bring himself to rue her presence here, despite the complication it brings to their situation.

Anger flares, unchecked, at the news of the attempt on her life. He had disobeyed every word of Aethelred’s order, not even discovering where she had taken sanctuary in case it revealed her to her enemies, and still it had not been enough to protect her from the Danes.

He cannot restrain himself from speaking to her, but knows, too, that he must be careful in his address. He waits until Aethelred has departed, and the rest of her company are distracted by the guards, to approach.

“It is good to see you safe, Lady,” he murmurs, just for her.

She nods quickly, cautious yet respectful. “Lord Aldhelm.”

It is not safe to say anything further—he cannot talk openly as he had that night at her estate—but it is enough. They are both aware of their precarious position, and he trusts her to play her role, as he must play his.

 

* * *

 

He defends her, as subtly as he can, but it does not go unnoticed. He places her value too highly, and speaks of it too often, to remain disguised for long. If he were unaware of it himself it may not be so obvious, but he has taken such deliberate pains to attempt to conceal it that it is all the more apparent.

He can only watch as Aethelred fixes on it—takes it, and turns it into a weapon.

The offer of additional guards is genuine, certainly, but he knows that it is merely cover for the true reason they have made the journey to Aethelflaed’s estate. It is a threat, and one intended to set her nerves on edge, so that she might be grateful for anything to distract her from it.

That he is the distraction, the bait, she does not know. He feels like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Aethelred leaves them alone together—a reprieve for her, perhaps, but not for him. He knows the intention is for him to capitalise on the unexpected moment they have just shared, and yet he will not be dishonest with her.

“I am to make you like me,” he tells her, and hopes she hears the caution in his voice. The wrinkle of her brow suggests that she does. Despite his apprehension, he wants to draw that laugh from her again. “Should I sing you a song?”

As hoped, she huffs a laugh—more controlled than the first, but no less beautiful. He does not dare look at her lest he lose himself entirely.

“Another time, perhaps,” she says graciously, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

It would be safer not to allow himself to get too close—if her husband wants him to bed her, he should be doing everything possible to distance himself. Allowing her to feel anything more than indifference towards him is a dangerous thing indeed. He has already let slip enough, the last time he was alone here with her, in saying that Aethelred is not the husband she deserves.

And yet, it would take a stronger man than himself to remain silent.

“I admire you, Lady,” he says, braving a glance at her once more. She looks up at him with quiet dignity. He should stop there, hold his tongue while it is not too late, but her eyes have bewitched him, and she draws the truth from him without having to say a word. “More than that, even.”

It is too much—too honest and too open. He claws his way back to propriety, and she is kind enough to allow it.

“Accept Aethelred’s offer of men, half the number,” he advises. “I will choose them myself, and they will be loyal to you alone, I swear.”

Her lips twitch into a smile. “I am beginning to believe you are a good man, Lord Aldhelm.”

He is a selfish man, perhaps—one unable to prevent himself coveting another man’s wife. Regardless of whether or not the man in question deserves her, it is still a sin.

“Not quite, Lady,” he manages. Her soft smile does not diminish.

 

* * *

 

They remain at Aethelflaed’s estate until it is time to travel to Winchester for her brother’s wedding.

Aethelred’s mood turns increasingly sour as the days pass, but whether it is simply an act to ensure that they ignore him and spend as much time in each other’s company as possible, it is difficult to tell. His intentions do not matter; the result is the same.

If she is aware of his true feelings—and really, she cannot be ignorant of them after so long at close quarters—she does not say. It is safer that way. He will not act on them, of course, but even to admit it is dangerous.

 

* * *

 

It is immeasurably worse to have the words thrown at him as an accusation—a warning.

He has disobeyed Aethelred too many times, and, like his respect for the man’s wife, it has not gone unnoticed.

“Do not dare dress it as counsel,” Aethelred snaps. “It is becoming a habit, I have noticed. As I’ve noticed your soft eyes for my wife.”

“It is counsel, Lord,” he returns, unflinching. He cannot afford to confess to anything.

“Do not fall under her spell,” Aethelred snarls at him, with all the ferocity of a starved wolf released from its cage. “Bed her, yes, and give me the satisfaction of divorce, but do not dare love her.”

It is already far too late for that.

 

* * *

                                   

The world shifts once more, inexorable, and in the course of one night, everything changes. Alfred dies, taking his alliances to the grave with him.

It is not until after the funeral that he finds the chance for a moment alone with her—her husband leaving her side as soon as he is able.

“Lady,” he murmurs, stepping in close, “you have my condolences.”

A quick glance confirms to her that they are alone. “Thank you, Lord Aldhelm,” she returns, glancing across at him briefly. Her composure slips, just for a moment, and he sees her eyes shine with unshed tears before she quickly blinks them away.

“I did not send for further guards,” he tells her, watching as understanding dawns in her eyes. “You will be safe,” he promises.

At this moment, it is the only thing he can swear to.

 

* * *

 

He is so focused on her safety that he does not spare a thought for his own.

His pride in her, and his desire to live up to the faith she has placed in him, blinds him to how dangerous Aethelred has become. He had once advised her not to rile her husband—he has not heeded his own warning, to his peril.

The movement is so fierce, and so sudden, that for a moment he is not sure what has happened. His hands come to his stomach instinctively, and then the pain blooms.

He sinks to the floor, clutches at his wound, and thinks of her.

 

* * *

 

There is only one place he can go now. If he is to die, he will do it surrounded by her, in a place that is entirely hers.

The chamber door is thankfully unlocked, but she is not within. It is better this way, he reasons—she should not have to see him in this state. He cannot allow himself to hope that she will find him before it is too late.

He is here now, and it is too late to turn back, yet to take her bed seems like a trespass too far. He fumbles halfway across the stone. Bleeding out on her floor may be impolite and improper, but it is less of an inconvenience.

He drops to the foot of her bed, as ever her humble servant.

 

* * *

 

It is not long before he hears the creak of the door as it is pushed open. She is here, to be with him at the end. It would not be appropriate to send praise to the heavens.

He sees the fear in her expression—he has never been able to forget how it looks on her—but it quickly dissolves the moment her eyes fix on him, swiftly becoming one of concern. Her gasp this time sounds like one of relief.

There is blood on her hands, outstretched in front of her. His blood, he realises dimly.

“Lady, forgive me,” he manages. “I did not know where else to go.”

She does not ask who is responsible for his wound; she does not have to. She is in no doubt of his loyalty to Mercia, and to her. She knows who he has betrayed. It is a relief to know that there will be no need to lie to her—that it is another secret they will share together. He cannot help but think bitterly that it will be their last.

Then she is at his side, on her knees before him, and he has no time to spare for bitterness.

“I am glad,” she breathes, settling a bloodstained hand over his to draw it away from his body and inspect the wound.

She helps him to a chair, then removes his shirt with careful, patient hands. He trembles beneath her gaze. She must mistake it for a shiver, as she arranges a blanket around his shoulders, but he does not feel the chill of the room—not with her eyes and hands on him.

It is too late for modesty now, but there is an element of comfort in discussing politics as she presses a cloth to his wound, her touch gentle. It is a welcome distraction from the pain, and the sensation of her fingers brushing his skin.

After a while, her ministrations cease.

“There,” she murmurs, her hands still lingering over the cloth. He can feel the warmth of her touch through the fabric. “The bleeding has stemmed, I hope.”

“A gut wound is a slow death,” he grits out. He cannot look at her as he says it. To speak it aloud makes it real, and he finds he does not want to face it now that she is here.

“A gut wound can heal,” she asserts, as certain as he has ever heard. “It will heal.” It sounds like an order.

God knows, he does not wish to disobey her. He hopes she knows it too.

If she did not look so beautiful, as intent and focused on her task as she is, it would make it easier for him to hold in the words threatening to leave his mouth, yet when they come, he feels no shame in saying them.

“Lady… you have my heart,” he confesses. “I fear that I love you.”

It is a relief to say it, even though it changes nothing between them. Perhaps it is cruel to admit it now, when he is about to leave her, but after all that she has endured, she deserves to hear the truth.

She remains silent, but it does not matter. She knows now, and it is done.

“If I can’t say it when I’m dying, when will I say it?” he murmurs, in an attempt to take the pressure away from her. It does not sound close to a joke, but a quick smile twitches at her lips anyway, and at last she meets his eyes.

“You are not dying.”

He wishes it were true, and yet he knows that there are more important matters than his own life, now and always.

“Lady, you must act, for Mercia. You must.” He is not ashamed to beg this of her. If she does one thing to honour him, let it be this. “Call the men to arms, and save us.”

She nods, and he sees the resolution in her eyes. “I will,” she vows. “And you must remain here, for me.”

“My lady,” he utters, the endearment slipping from his tongue unchecked in his surprise, “if I were to be discovered...”

Her hand reaches out to press his thigh, quelling further protest before it can form.

“If my husband wishes to divorce me, he will have to find another way,” she declares with quiet determination. “He would need more proof than simply your presence in my chambers. My maid is discreet. You will be safe here.” A conspiratorial smile quirks at her lips. “Besides, I don’t know how he was expecting you to bed me in such a state.”

Unwise as it is, he allows himself to return her smile. “If you wished it of me, I would attempt anything,” he admits. He realises his mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth, but it is too late—she has heard it too.

“Then you will stay,” she says, solemn once more. “I will ride into battle, for Mercia and for Wessex, and you will heal.”

He bows his head, as ever in deference to her. “As you wish, my lady.”

He will not disobey her now.

 

**Author's Note:**

> AND THEN HE LIVED


End file.
